The Master of Happy Endings

by Jack Hodgins

  “I’ll keep my distance then,” Thorstad said, shaking a hand that was undoubtedly insured for millions. “A face as old as mine could be a temptation.”

  The surgeon’s thin smile appeared to cause him pain. No doubt he’d heard such things before.

  His diminutive wife Louise had piled her dark hair on the top of her head—perhaps to acquire a little more height, something her husband’s profession was not equipped to do. She wore a bright red shawl around her shoulders and a patterned skirt that fell to just above the painted toenails in her spike-heeled shoes. “Louise is an interior decorator,” Camilla said. “She recommended the realtor who found us this house—which explains why I adore her.”

  The adored one’s glasses were too large for her small round head. Surely a husband accustomed to studying faces must have informed her of this.

  “That will be Harold’s car we hear,” Camilla Evans said, offering a platter of mushrooms—stuffed, she said, with crab. To Thorstad, who watched the red Ford sedan zigzag its way up the hill, she explained that Harold had written a long-running series back in the eighties but was living in Texas now. “He’s in town to pitch a couple of story ideas. Also, I imagine, to show off his new friend.”

  The new friend, introduced as “Lyle,” was only a little older than Travis and possibly thirty years younger than white-haired leathery Harold. He wore a cobalt shirt with tight denim jeans and electric-blue runners, and stood with arms crossed and hands clamped to his own shoulders while old friends greeted one another. He may have felt as foreign here as Axel Thorstad.

  “A Norwegian name?” he said, when they’d been introduced. He ran his glance down Thorstad’s length and answered himself. “Well, of course! Ten feet tall and brooding forehead! Legs for striding over mountains. You make movies where everyone commits suicide in the dark of winter. Am I right?”

  He was disappointed to learn that Thorstad was not in the business.

  Harold wanted to know where their host was hiding. “Not called to the studio, I hope.”

  “We may wish he was,” Camilla said. “He’s just had a call from Morrison. The network’s moving Forgotten River to Fridays.”

  “On no!” Lyle said. “Isn’t Friday night supposed to be certain death?”

  “Except for those who survive it,” Camilla said. “Don’t bring it up unless he does. I expect he’ll join us once he’s simmered down.”

  Harold seemed determined to outline the route they had taken to get here—a dizzying list of street names and sharp turns and shortcuts through unfamiliar territory—while one hand explored his considerable paunch. “We outsmarted ourselves and had to come over the ridge from behind, risking our lives on those hairpin downhill bends.”

  Elliot Evans had come out onto the terrace while Harold was taking them through the back roads of Greater Los Angeles. “God bless the PCH,” he said, slipping his cellphone into a pocket. “Life would be impossible here without it.” No longer in the faded jeans he’d worn at work, he was dressed in wide-legged cotton slacks and a blue shirt with a pattern of silver diamonds.

  To Thorstad, Camilla said, “In L.A. it’s always ‘How did you get here?’ before anything else—in case someone has found a route without traffic jams or streets blocked off by film crews. I’m told that where you’re from all party conversations begin with the weather.”

  Harold would not agree to Louise’s suggestion that he practise pitching his story proposals to the present company, but he was interested in hearing how Forgotten River was doing at the end of its third season. “Still no temper tantrums from Dolores?”

  Evans made a show of gritting his teeth. “Until today, the biggest problem I’ve had is the studio’s newest series. This guy waltzes in with nothing behind him but two mildly successful procedurals and they give him his own show and my best writer! I’m still fighting to get her back.”

  “I heard your biggest problem was Tom Morrison,” Harold said. Apparently he believed that Camilla’s warning had not been meant for him.

  Evans’s face coloured up. “The bastard says he’s convinced we can handle Friday but I bet he hopes we die!”

  “He’s an idiot,” Harold said. “It probably means his days are numbered and he wants to do as much damage as possible while he can. Did he give you a reason?”

  “He gave me a shitload of reasons but he didn’t need to. It was only a few weeks ago I told him I’d seen his new girlfriend’s audition and wouldn’t hire her for a two-second spot if all the real actors in town were on strike. I guess he holds a grudge.”

  “Elliot!” Camilla’s shock appeared to be genuine.

  Evans grinned. “Morrison’s idea of talent is a baby-doll voice and a rack of hooters out to here.”

  “Don’t get him started,” Camilla cautioned, putting a hand on her husband’s shoulder while glaring at traitorous Harold. “Bring your glasses to the table.”

  A small spinach salad waited at each setting. Apparently the idea was to sit wherever you wished, except for Camilla and Elliot Evans who would sit at either end of the table. Evans stood behind his chair until everyone else had chosen a place. Louise was to Thorstad’s left, Travis directly across. Behind Travis, a painting thick with oils and nearly as long as the room suggested the expanse of empty waves it faced beyond the glass, a sort of stylized reflection. It was meant, he supposed, as compensation for those who sat with their back to the sea. If Thorstad were to hang it in his cabin he would have to saw it in half and place it on two separate walls.

  Camilla explained that the children had been fed and placed in front of the television at the farthest end of the house. “They are not to bother us unless there’s blood.”

  When Evans mentioned that their guests were “down from Canada,” the cosmetic surgeon put down his fork and clasped hands together beneath his chin, both elbows on the table. “I saw Dave Thomas last week, having coffee with someone at the Hideaway. At least I think it was him. He seemed to be into a long involved outrageous routine that had his pal laughing so hard he was doubled over wiping his eyes and had to run for the washroom clutching himself like a kid!”

  “I was born a few miles from Dave Thomas,” Evans said.

  “Where?” Louise said—a challenge, as though she might catch Evans in a lie.

  Evans waited until he had swallowed his spinach. “Small-town Ontario.”

  “But moved to Saskatchewan,” Camilla reminded him.

  Lyle gasped. “I saw Saskatchewan! Marilyn Monroe and the Rockies.”

  “The Rockies are not in Saskatchewan,” Camilla gently said. She dabbed at the corners of her mouth with her serviette.

  “Neither is Marilyn Monroe,” Harold said.

  “And,” Evans added, “you were thinking of River of No Return. Shelley Winters was in Saskatchewan. And Alan Ladd.”

  Beneath this crowded table, Thorstad’s long thighs seemed incapable of finding a place of their own. His left knee touched what he assumed was Louise-the-decorator’s leg, but quickly retreated. He must concentrate on keeping his legs together.

  From experiencing far too many long-ago dinner parties, he knew that as an outsider favoured with a place at the table it was necessary to look interested in what the others had to say, even if the context was not explained. Sooner or later a sensitive hostess would steer the conversation to a place where she would force you into the fray. Even knowing this, you might say things you would later realize were foolish.

  Travis, too, had been quiet since they’d come to the table, looking from speaker to speaker with a neutral expression on his face. Was he worried by the news about “Friday night” and how this might affect his career? Or had he, like his elderly “assistant,” been brought up to speak in a crowd of adults only when directly addressed?

  Evans stood up and circled the table, collecting the salad plates. “We moved to Saskatoon when I was twelve.” When he’d returned to the room with a large blue bowl he added, “I dreamed of becoming another Tarkovsky, or
maybe a Bergman, making serious art films—even though I’d only read about them. Dammit, this is hot!” He placed the bowl of paella in front of Louise and returned to his chair. Camilla left for the kitchen and came back with a loaf of bread on a board. “But, since I wasn’t born in Quebec I knew there was little hope of doing that in North America, so I headed south to make TV shows for the masses.”

  “Money is reasonable compensation for abandoned dreams,” the plastic surgeon said, examining his own expensive fingers.

  “Help yourselves to what’s in front of you,” Camilla suggested. “And pass it on.”

  “Wanting to make Bergman movies in English Canada,” Evans said, now back in his place, “was rather like wanting to become an Olympic athlete while growing up in poorest Chechnya, say, with a serious case of rickets.”

  Lyle laughed. Travis grinned. Most of the others groaned.

  “And even if you did achieve this remarkable feat, the Giant Next Door, represented by a certain ‘Jack Valentovich,’ would make sure it was never distributed.”

  “Elliot,” Camilla cautioned from the opposite end of the table.

  “Mr. Thorstad has movies in his blood as well,” Travis said, suddenly leaning forward to address the whole table. Thorstad had been brought to class for show and tell.

  “I knew it!” Lyle exclaimed. He scowled at Thorstad. “You lied.”

  When all eyes had turned to startled Thorstad, Travis explained. “His father was a stuntman here.” To Thorstad he looked far too pleased with himself.

  Eyebrows were raised. Perhaps until now they’d wondered if he was a bodyguard allowed at table only on condition that he keep his silence. “That was back in 1930,” he said, attempting to make the few words sound like an intelligent contribution to the discussion.

  “Killed,” Travis announced—so enthusiastically, he might have done the killing himself.

  “Killed?” Several said this. Lyle added, “That’s terrible!” Axel Thorstad was now more interesting than a bodyguard, but wished it were otherwise.

  “An accident,” he corrected.

  “Oh dear,” was said here and there around the table.

  This was followed by an awkward silence until Camilla, perhaps to avoid keeping Thorstad any longer on the spot, turned to the interior decorator. “I read in the paper that Louise and her realtor friend have been squiring that singer from England around, showing houses in Beverly Hills.”

  “In Bel Air actually,” Louise said. She’d been caught fishing out her chained turquoise pendant from inside the low neck of her dress. “They’re looking for something in the thirty-to-forty range, but haven’t found one yet they liked. Apparently his wife wants tennis courts and a putting green and a four-car garage.”

  Evans tended to wave his fork around like a baton—their own Eugen von Schiller-Holst. “How do these prices sound to someone from your part of the world, uh . . . Axel?” Perhaps he was simply being the good host. “What’s your opinion of clients who insist on four-car garages and a putting green?”

  Thorstad slammed his thighs together. His left knee had wandered off again to nudge his neighbour. He didn’t want to think of the legs beneath this table—a forest of them, everyone’s but his maintaining discipline. “Sorry,” he muttered to the diminutive woman, who pretended not to hear.

  Dare he express, here in this company, his wish that people with thirty million dollars to spend would use it to save a few dairy farms from Mrs. Montana and her pals? This was not the sort of thing you said to hosts who’d welcomed you to their table.

  “He lives in a two-room shack,” Travis said, perhaps to explain an old man’s silence. They could now imagine the shock of arriving here directly from a two-room shack.

  Possibly out of pity for the man who lived in a shack, Harold changed the subject. Since the price of real estate was being discussed, he was able to report the latest trends in Dallas. Houston as well.

  Every bone and muscle in Thorstad’s body begged to get up off this chair and move about, though he knew that even if this were not unthinkable during a dinner party there was nowhere here a person could roam—certainly not on the vertical world that separated this house from the highway.

  Of course he recognized that what he was feeling was not just restlessness. After a day already filled with frustration, even a casual dinner party could seem like one more attempt to thwart him. A young man in training, whether for a swim meet or a final exam, had little time for casual conversation. Of course he had been too single-minded all his life and ought to relax tonight, since they would both be working hard tomorrow.

  Real estate prices were still on their minds. “I don’t know what the Robertsons paid for the house next door,” Camilla Evans said, “but they seem determined to get their money back from renting it to the movies. Our street is constantly being clogged with trucks and film crews and we’re being told to keep quiet.”

  “They don’t pay for the inconvenience?” The plastic surgeon was prepared to dislike the movie companies.

  “They don’t want to,” Evans said, “but once we get our noisy lawn mowers out they come around.”

  “The Robertsons are related to Someone,” Louise said. “Eastwood? Coppola? One of those guys throws business their way. Maybe they like living in hotels.”

  “Could be hard on their children,” Harold said.

  “I thank our lucky stars we don’t have any of those,” Louise-the-decorator said. “Has anyone at this table had children? Aside from brave Camilla.”

  “Not me!” said Lyle, denying responsibility for the world’s worst crime. He shook the very possibility from his fingers.

  Harold had four sons living with their mother in Connecticut. “Grown up now. I see them two or three times a year.”

  “Mr. Thorstad?” Camilla Evans had turned attention to him. “Axel? A grandfather, I would guess.”

  Thorstad was tempted to say “No children”—the literal truth—and leave it at that, but found himself naming Stuart. “A foster child. But of course it was long ago and we didn’t have him for long.”

  Travis reacted to this revelation with too much pleasure. “Man, that’s weird! I mean, him and you could, you know, meet somewhere and never know it.” This scenario inspired another. “You could get into an argument with him, or punch him out. He could be, like, somewhere in this city right now. Or sitting at this table.”

  Startling himself with this last possibility, he fell back in his chair looking a little confused.

  “He could be your Prime Minister,” Harold said, “or a ‘promising’ abstract painter living like a parasite off an old fool like me.”

  Lyle glared. “Or the cute little man who cleans our pool.”

  “Or, since we have plummeted so quickly down the ranks,” the cosmetic surgeon said, “he could be a murderer languishing on death row.”

  “They don’t have a death row up there,” Harold said. “Or so I’ve heard. No hangman, no electric chair, no lethal injections, no machete, no firing squad. They’re a strange primitive bunch. They think they live in Oregon!”

  “We’re a little suspicious of you folks,” the cosmetic surgeon said. “Wondering why you’re even there.”

  “Maybe,” Axel Thorstad said, flushed out at last, “you find it hard to believe that more than thirty million people who want to live in North America would rather not live in your country— with its death rows and Jack Valentoviches.” It was possibly not a polite thing to say, but the conversation had begun to irritate.

  The worried plastic surgeon leaned forward. “You do put killers behind bars?”

  “They chain them to an ice floe,” Evans said, “preferably an ice floe occupied by a hungry polar bear.”

  “The ice is melting fast,” Harold said, “and I hear the polar bears are moving into your cities and eating your children. It serves you right for snubbing The Greatest Country on Earth.” He reached for the bowl of paella for a second helping.

  “What I w
ant to know,” said Louise, “is when Elliot is going to come through with his promise.” She explained to the table at large: “I’ve always wanted to be an Extra in a television series and Elliot said he’d call me the next time he needed a crowd.”

  “This is your lucky day,” Evans said. “Or, your lucky week, I should say. We need a crowd on Friday. For a riot.”

  Louise slapped her tiny hands together. “I’d love to be in a riot. I want to carry a double-bitted axe and behave like a drunken Viking.”

  “No axes this time,” Evans said, holding his loaded fork halfway to his mouth. “I’m sorry to tell you it’s the regulars who’ll riot. The homeless bunch. What I’ll need is a few dozen people dressed for a costume ball.”

  “While the riot is going on without me?” Indignation raised the interior decorator halfway out of her chair.

  “The ball will be invaded.”

  Louise sat again and bowed her head to accept what was offered. “I’ll be allowed to strike a few blows, I hope?”

  “But a costume ball?” Camilla asked, evidently not aware of this event.

  “A society costume ball,” said Travis, who had read the script.

  “To raise money for the homeless,” Evans explained. “That’s its advertised purpose. Louise will be one of the society matrons, though her clients may not recognize her as Little Bo Peep.”

  “Little Bo Peep my ass,” Louise said. “I’d rather be the Wicked Witch of the West. Or the North—whichever’s worse.”

  “Louise will not be alone,” Camilla informed her husband. “We will all be there in costume, signed up as Extras. Everyone at this table. Even Harold and Lyle if they’re still in town. We will not be left out of this.”